Live Bullets
by Sameuspegasus
Summary: Sam and Dean find themselves trapped in the eighties, where everyone thinks they are the bad guys. Can they get home? Can the A-team get their villians?
1. Chapter 1

**Disclaimer: I have no affiliation with Supernatural or The A-team. Not for profit. All in good fun.**

**A/N: Obviously, this is a crossover between Supernatural and the TV series of The A-team, not the movie. **

Sam had been in bars like this so many times over the years he'd lost count. Un-swept wooden floor, bar across the back wall with shelves of spirit bottles behind it. There was a pool table in the corner, green covering worn down by rolling balls and scratching cues until it was smooth and faded. A row of wobbly stools sat at the bar, and a few tables were scattered around, odd numbers of stools around them. There were windows in the front wall, looking out into the street, but they were so dirty the light barely made it through.

The bar was nearly empty. Sam didn't know why. It had been late evening when he and Dean had slouched back on their beds in the shabby motel in the middle of nowhere. They'd been settling down for a quiet night, recovering from the hunt, and Dean had switched on the TV. Then, boom, here they were, in a small-town bar. It seemed to be daytime outside, though the dirty windows kept the room dim. So maybe it was too early for big business. Anyway, that didn't seem to be the salient point here.

Sam nudged his brother, hissing, "What the hell just happened?"

Dean still had the remote in one hand, the other clutching the gun he kept under his pillow. "How should I know? But I'm pretty sure it's not good."

There was a bartender in a plaid shirt wiping the bar with a rag. His face was forgettable, and he seemed non-threatening but strangely tense. The only other patrons were an old drunk in a baggy raincoat and what looked like someone else's toupee, who was hunched at one end of the bar in a cloud of cigar smoke, and two guys eating at one of the tables. One was in a ball cap and battered leather jacket, and appeared to be putting on some kind of puppet show with his fries for his friend in the fancy suit.

Sam cleared his throat. "Hi there," he said. "Would someone mind telling us where we are?"

The old guy in the raincoat stood up and shucked off his raincoat and toupee, placing them carefully on the bar. He was a white-haired, maybe early sixties. He spoke around his cigar, a wide smile on his face. "Certainly. You're in Cooper's Bar, and that's the way it's going to stay. You can keep up the false pleasantness as long as you want, but there's still a place in this town that's not selling out to you."

"Uh, okay," Sam said doubtfully. It looked like they weren't going to get anymore information here. "If you could just direct us to the nearest library, we'll get out of your hair."

"Um, Sam?" Dean's voice had a warning in it.

Sam looked over at his brother. Dean nodded his head in the direction of the door. The man in the baseball cap, who'd been so innocuously making his fries dance a few moments ago, was standing in front of the door with his hands behind his back, blocking their exit. Sam looked around for another way out and found the door to the backroom blocked by the man in the snazzy suit. He'd removed his jacket and was rolling up the sleeves of his crisp white shirt. The bartender was nowhere in sight.

"Put down your gun, Mr Little," The white-haired man said, still without removing his cigar.

Dean looked behind him for Mr Little, and then, not finding anyone else in the bar, pointed to himself. "Who, me? How about no?"

"You're making a mistake, Mr Little. Now I suggest you place your weapon on the floor and kick it over to me."

Dean was gripping his gun tighter than ever.

Sam decided someone needed to defuse the situation. "There seems to be some kind of confusion, here," he said. "I don't know who you think we are, but—"

"Oh, there's no confusion. We know what you've been doing in this town, and we've come to correct it," The man puffed out cigar smoke. "Murdock."

Sam looked around at the man by the door just in time to see him pull a machine gun out from behind him. "Dean!" Sam tackled his brother to the ground as a hail of bullets flew over their heads, shattering bottles behind the bar.

"Get off me, Sam," Dean shoved him off, reluctantly setting his gun on the ground and sliding it across the floor.

The man in the suit picked it up and examined it, seeming totally unruffled by the machine gun fire that had missed him by about a foot and a half. "Nice. We've been running low on handguns lately."

"Now," said the guy with the cigar, "We're taking down your operation. Face, tell them our proposition."

The suit guy looked up, tucking Dean's gun into his waistband, and then pulling it out and handing it to Murdock. "Ruins the line. Now, I have that list somewhere. Oh, yes," He picked his suit jacket up from the bar, brushing slivers of glass from it, and reached into the pocket, coming up with a small notebook. He opened it. "Here we go. There's the damage to this bar: that's three hundred dollars for physical damage, plus another thousand for loss of business. Then there's Cooper's motel next door, we'll want that back. And Jerry's Diner, the six other stores on Main Street, and then there's the Walker farm. Oh, and our fee. So all up, you owe us; let's see… why don't we just make it a round two million?"

Sam got to his feet slowly, showing the men his empty hands. Dean stood beside him, still holding the TV remote.

"Uh uh uh," Murdock reached over and removed the remote from Dean's hand, still training the machine gun on him.

"You've got two days," said the leader, "Throw them out."

To Sam's surprise, the two flunkies abandoned their weapons in favour of unarmed combat, and the white haired man flung his cigar away and leapt into the fray with surprising agility.

Sam was a big guy. He could hold his own in a fist fight. The trouble was that he wasn't used to fighting humans. Especially well-trained humans. And these guys were definitely trained. Some of their moves were a bit unorthodox, but mostly Sam could identify and counter them. He ducked a punch from the old guy and pulled one of the other guys off Dean, shoving him across the room so Dean could deal with his friend.

"Christo?" He tried. None of the men paused. The one in the suit dived on Sam from halfway across the room and Sam went down with a painful thud.

Sam rolled on top of the guy who'd leapt on him and forced him onto his stomach, twisting his arm behind his back. "Who are you?" He growled.

Behind him, he heard someone yell, "BA!" and then suddenly he was flying out the window and landing hard on a sidewalk amid a shower of shattered glass. He put his arms up to protect his face as his brother was flung out the same window, landing almost on top of him.

"What the hell is going on?" Dean asked him as they disentangled themselves. "Those guys have freakin' military training and seem to think I'm some guy called Little."

"I don't know, but I vote we find out soon."

A heavily muscled guy with dark skin, a mohawk, and way too much jewellery poked his head out the broken window and pointed at them. "Two days, suckers!"

XXX

Face peered at the rip in his shirt. He'd lost three buttons in the fight and his white shirt looked like he'd been using it to clean the van. "Oh, would you look at that. My friends will be ashamed to be seen with me."

Murdock threw an arm around him. "Don't worry Faceman! I'll go out in public with you."

Face kept pouting. "I'm adding this suit to their tab."

"Everybody says you let me down… I should be ashamed to take you round… makes no difference what you used to do…Darling, I could never be ashamed of you," Murdock sang, refusing to let Face shake him off.

"Shut up, fool," BA interrupted, "We got work to do."

"That's right, BA." Hannibal pulled out a fresh cigar from the inside pocket of his coat and bit off the end. He picked up the remote that had ended up across the floor in the corner and handed it to BA. "BA, I want you to take this apart and see what it does. It may look like a fancy television remote, but you can never be too careful. Now, they're holed up at the motel next door. We're going to need to know what they've got before we can form a plan. Face, you and Murdock look around. If they go anywhere, follow them. We attack tomorrow." Hannibal lit his cigar and grinned.

Face groaned. "Why are we even bothering to investigate, Hannibal? We all know what then plan is going to be, regardless of what we find."

"Yeah," contributed BA. "Go in the front door."

"With machine guns," Murdock finished.

"Ah," Hannibal replied, "but it's how we go in the front door that matters. "

Fifteen minutes later, Face and Murdock were lurking in the parking lot of Cooper's motel, the current headquarters of the Little brothers' organisation. The motel was a fairly new wooden building, painted white. It had fourteen rooms on two floors, plus a separate building containing the office, which was where Bill Cooper and his wife had lived until the Little brothers had forced them to sell out for a pittance. The Coopers had lost all their money in the deal, and had ended up having to move in with Bill's brother, who owned the bar next door. The same thing had been happening all over town, and in the end, the Coopers had called in the A-team to stop the takeover.

"Wait here," Face instructed his friend, "and don't draw attention to yourself." He held up a hand before Murdock could say anything. "That means no singing, no pretending to be Johnny Cash, and no… you know, maybe you should just not talk to anyone."

Murdock put on a hurt expression. "Faceman, you know I can act sane with the best of them when I have to." He shoved his hands in his pockets and kicked at the packed dirt of the parking lot. "I'll keep watch."

Face pulled his cowboy hat down over his eyes and ripped his already damaged shirt a little more. He pulled out a small flask of whisky and poured some on his shirt, ensuring an authentic drunk smell. "Now try to look like a rebellious rich boy." He patted Murdock on the shoulder, still not entirely comfortable with leaving Murdock to play his part. Murdock tended to get a bit… over-imaginative… with his roles in cons. Actually, he tended to get a bit over-imaginative with most things.

"Good luck, Face," Murdock said seriously, and walked into the flowerbed running along the front of the motel so he could lean casually against the wall.

Face limped over to the office, rustling the wad of bills in his pocket. A bell jingled loudly as he opened the door roughly and stumbled over the threshold into the clean, friendly looking room. There was a receptionist at the desk, a very pretty woman in her mid-twenties, with curly blonde hair and a blue suit that matched her eyes. Face rang the bell on the desk several times anyway.

"Can I help you, sir?" The receptionist asked.

"My pal and I… our car ssmmashed up outta town. We need a room," Face slurred, pulling a handful of money out of his pocket and slapping it on the desk.

"I'm sorry, sir," the woman looked concerned, "This motel is currently booked out for a conference. Would you like to use the phone?"

"Doessn't look booked up," Face pulled out a few more bills, "Look, we jusss need a place ta stay 'til we can get my 'vette fixed up. My Daddy will cut me off if he finds out I ssmashed up another one. I can pay." He smiled his best playboy smile at her.

The receptionist sighed. "I'll have to check with the owner."

Face frowned. "Don't ya know who ah am? Ah could stop this est-esstablishment getting any business ever again. I'll spread the word about your lack of hospitality everywhere ah go."

The receptionist looked indecisive for a moment, and then finally said, "You can take room fourteen, but just for one night, and you have to be quiet." She took a key off a hook on the wall behind her. "It's upstairs, at the back."

Face took the key and swayed back out the door.

Murdock was sitting in the flowerbed beside a small castle sculpted out of dirt. He looked up as Face approached. "What took you so long, Face? I got bored."

Face scowled. "Scamming is not as easy as everyone seems to think it is, you know. It takes skill, and nerves of steel." He held up the room key, allowing himself to grin. "Our room's on the top floor at the back. Just right for surveillance of the motel."

Murdock stood up, brushing the dirt off his hands and the seat of his pants. Stepping carefully around his castle and the plants he had relocated to make room for it, he made his way out of the flowerbed. "The Littles are in room four, presumably because it's central. There's muscle in the rooms on either side, and room eleven has the big guns in it, to protect the Littles underneath. I don't know what they've got, though. This is about more than buying up the town. They're preparing for battle."

"What are they doing now?" Face asked, dragging Murdock in the direction of room fourteen. It would do no good to get caught discussing this in the parking lot.

"They seem to just be in their room, talking about something. I couldn't get close enough to hear, but they shut out the rest of the guys. Seems like something's not going according to plan." Murdock smiled widely.

Face smirked along with him. "I wonder why? Do you think it was something we did?"

At that moment, a door slammed, and the Little brothers came hurrying across the parking lot, heavy boots kicking up dust. Face kept his back turned and watched their reflection in the window of room one until they'd gone past, before ambling casually in the same direction. Murdock followed, singing, "Hey, hey good-lookin', what you got cookin'…"

Face jabbed him in the side. "What'd we say about singing?"

XXX

Dean frowned at Sam as he picked himself up of the sparsely gravelled street and brushed the broken glass off his body. He stretched a hand down and helped Sam up. "Why do I feel like I've come in halfway through a TV show?"

Sam examined a small cut on his arm. "Was that last guy even human? I'm pretty sure I've never been thrown that hard by someone who wasn't a demon."

Dean shook his head. "I tested him. I guess he's the muscle in the commando unit of crazy."

"Well, one thing's for sure. We need to figure out what's going on before our two days is up." Sam looked around him. "Where is everybody?"

Dean followed his gaze. Huh. It was the middle of the day and there were no other people in the main street. Not even any cars. That was weird, even in a tiny town like this. All he could see was dust and closed stores. Except the motel. It looked like there were people there. He caught a glimpse of a big guy in a cowboy hat walking across the parking lot. He looked harder at the building. Huh. The paint wasn't peeling, and the curtains were new, but it looked familiar. "Does that look like our motel to you, Sam?"

Sam looked it, reading the sign, which was freshly painted with the words 'Cooper's Motel'. "It's had a name change. Our motel was called Little's."

Someone was singing Johnny Cash inside the shot-up bar. Whoever it was had a great voice. Sounded a lot like the man in black. It gave Dean the creeps. "Guess the motel's a good enough place to start."

It was unnervingly easy to infiltrate the motel. In fact, everyone seemed to think they were meant to be there. As they walked over to room four, where they had been staying before the sudden attack of crazy, the big guy with the cowboy hat came over to them.

He was big, in his late thirties, and wearing jeans and a plaid shirt, buttoned and tucked in. He lifted his hat slightly as he greeted them. "Those guys are lookin' like ruining the deal for us. Want us do deal with them?"

Dean really hoped the guy wasn't offering what he thought he was offering.

Sam answered. "Uh, just hold off a bit, huh. I want to, um, see what their game plan is."

The guy adjusted his hat. "Whatever you say, Mr Little. But the Big Man's due tomorrow to close the deal. If these bozos interrupt it, we're finished."

"Oh, we'll deal with them," said Dean, in his best bad-guy voice, "But me and my brother, here, we want to do it personal-like."

When they managed to get inside their room, they found it much like they had left it. Only newer. The carpet was plushy and clean. Dean didn't think he'd ever been in a motel with new carpet. He almost wanted to take his boots off and curl his toes in it. He didn't, of course. His policy of only taking off his boots when absolutely necessary had definitely proved itself worthwhile today.

He sat down at the shiny orange table. "So, any theories?"

Sam hesitated. "Time travel?" He ventured.

"Wouldn't be the weirdest thing ever to happen to us," Dean agreed. He pulled his phone out of his pocket. "Maybe Cas knows something."

He pressed the button to speed-dial Cas. Nothing happened. It didn't even ring. "Crap. I guess cell phones haven't been invented." He looked up from the phone, taking in the room, with its orange and brown décor, and new-looking furniture. Something was poking out from under one of the beds. He got up and pulled it out. "What the hell is this?"

It looked like some kind of animal skin, pale and poorly treated, a few bloodstains decorating it. There were markings covering it, unfamiliar symbols carved in with a knife. There was a large hole in the centre, its edges burned brown and ragged.

Sam pulled an identical on from beneath the other bed. "This doesn't look good," he said. "I guess we need to try and find a library." He rolled up the skin and tucked it inside his over-shirt, then stood up and walked over to the door.

Dean did the same, pausing only to look longingly at the bed. Apparently the universe saw no need for him to sleep.

Two of the guys from the bar were in the parking lot, pretending to have a conversation so it didn't look like they were spying. The one who'd had the machine gun seemed to be covered in dirt, while the one who'd read them their supposed charges was still wearing his suit, but was looking considerably more dishevelled than he had during the fight.

They walked down the main street in search of a library. Frankly, Dean didn't have very high hopes of finding one. A town this small probably wouldn't have a very big library even when it was in full swing, but with everything closed, there was almost no chance of finding an open library.

"It's no good," said Dean, when they'd walked the length of Main St and the single built-up side street. They hadn't found a library, or for that matter, anywhere else that might offer answers. The only places that were open in the small town were a hardware store with no customers, a small grocery store, a bar in only slightly better repair than the one they had appeared in, and Cooper's Bar, where the barman they'd seen earlier was replacing the front windows, aided by the white-haired man with the cigar. "We need to figure out who these guys are and where they keep their magic crap before we can figure out what spell they did to get us here."

"And we need to do it by tomorrow," Sam agreed. "I don't like the sound of this Big Man, and I doubt those military guys are really going to give us two days."

Dean glanced behind him. There was no sign of the two guys who had been following them, but that didn't mean they weren't there. If their tracking skills were anything like their fighting skills, they were sure to be able to track someone through an empty street in broad daylight without being seen. "Who are they, anyway?"

"How should I know? Although there was some talk of mercenary soldiers in this area in the mid-eighties. No-one ever knew what happened to them."

"How do you know stuff like that?" Dean shook his head in wonder. "Where else did the smarmy one say these Littles had taken? There was a farm in there, right?"

"The Walker farm. Probably a good, out of the way place to keep spell-books and plans, right? And now all we have to do is find it."

"And hold off crazy soldiers and tough-guy hillbillies while we do it."

A quiet creaking suddenly emitted from the building to their left. Dean looked up at the roof just in time to see a blue baseball cap disappearing from view. "Crap," he said.

XXX

Murdock lowered himself down from the roof, using Face as a stepladder.

"Well?" Face enquired impatiently, hardly waiting until Murdock was on solid ground.

Murdock thought for a moment. How much should he tell Face? They'd said some pretty weird stuff. Face would think he was imagining things again. And maybe he was. Murdock could usually tell if he was confusing reality with fantasy, mostly from the reactions of other people, but no-one else had been there to confirm what he'd heard.

"Spit it out, Murdock, the Colonel will want us back at the van soon," Face pressured him.

The Colonel was usually pretty accepting of the things Murdock imagined and the stories he made up so he didn't have to think about things, as long as they didn't interfere with the mission. But this – this would definitely interfere. Even Face, who was most accepting of the whole team, and almost always played along, unless it involved a cape, would have trouble with this.

"Murdock?" Face was starting to look concerned.

"I think they're imposters from an alternate world," Murdock said in a rush, and then before Face could say anything, "No, really Face. They didn't seem to know anything about who they were, or the big scheme to sell out the land, or anything. And they kept talking about spells."

"Murdock," Face placed a comforting hand on his shoulder, "Don't you think if a vortex into another world had opened, we would have noticed something?"

Murdock nodded, still unsure. "I dunno, Face. They were saying some pretty weird stuff."

"Let's go back to the van," Face suggested, "They probably knew you were there and made things up to confuse you."

That made sense, Murdock guessed. He followed Face around the building to Main St. "I guess so," he said, disappointed. It would be so much more fun if they were really from an alternate world.

"Oh, and Murdock?" Face said, "Do me a favour and don't mention that theory in front of BA."


	2. Chapter 2

In the end, Sam and Dean decided to head back to the motel. They would have to get one of the henchmen to drive them to the Walker farm. Asking directions would raise suspicions and almost certainly end badly for them, and stealing a car and driving around searching for it would look even worse.

They ducked into the Hackton General store, which was the only open grocery store, on the way back. Sam nodded to the cashier, a pudgy middle-aged man who immediately stood up straighter and forced a smile. "Good to see you Mr Little, sir. Please, you don't pay here."

Sam frowned at his brother as Dean picked up a newspaper and a handful of candy bars and smiled at the cashier, but didn't protest. He followed Dean out into the street again. It wasn't like he had any money with him anyway.

"What? Tell me you're not hungry, Sam," Dean said, tossing the paper to Sam. "Look at this."

_October 15, 1984_. It was written in bold across the top of the local paper. Below was a large photo of two rough-looking men in front of a building, accompanied by the headline: "Little brothers make it big." Sam scanned the article beneath, which described the growing business empire of Joe and Frank Little in the town of Hackton. The article had clearly been written by someone who was either on the Littles' payroll, or had been intimidated, because it wrote them up in very favourable terms and greatly exaggerated the success of the businesses in the town, stating that several were currently closed for refurbishment.

"I figure they're doing it for the guy who's coming tomorrow," Dean said, around a mouthful of chocolate. "He must be pretty bad news if they've gone to the lengths of pinging themselves into the future to avoid him."

Sam's head was spinning. Dean was acting entirely too calm about the whole 1984 thing. Maybe it was just that it happened to Dean more often, but he didn't seem that worried about getting home. "Dude, tell me you aren't thinking of checking if this is a case. We need to find that farm, figure out what those guys did to get us here and make everyone think we're them, and get home. Cas isn't going to come dashing to the rescue, this time. He can't find us because of the carvings on our ribs, and it wasn't angels that brought us here."

To Sam's surprise, Dean didn't argue. "The past can't be changed, anyway," he said, "Let's just go out to the farm and see if they've left anything there that will tell us how to get home before the crazy guys from the bar get us."

Face and Murdock hurried back to the van, which was parked behind Cooper's bar, positioned so there was a good view of the back of the motel from the driver's window. They quickly climbed into the back, where Hannibal and BA already sat, ready for debriefing.

"Report, Captain," Hannibal ordered. Face groaned. He held little hope that Murdock would refrain from mentioning his creative theory about the origin of the Little brothers. At first Murdock had seemed to accept Face's assurances that they would have noticed if a black hole into another world had opened up, but as they had neared the van he had started becoming excited about his idea again, explaining enthusiastically to Face how people might transfer between worlds without causing disruption.

Murdock seemed unusually hesitant. "Respectfully Colonel, I – I don't think those men are Joe and Frank Little."

BA's muscles were twitching, his forehead scrunching into a deep frown, his hands balling into fists.

Hannibal humoured Murdock. "What makes you say that, Murdock?"

Face covered his face in his hands as Murdock began to explain his theory. "There are these other worlds, see… every time a big event happens that changes history, another world breaks off where that thing didn't happen or went the other way. Like, say World War II. In this reality, the allies won, but that could have gone the other way, so there's another world out there where the allies lost the Second World War…"

Face realised his fingers were twisting in his hair, destroying the perfectly crafted dishevelled look he had created for his drunk playboy character. He hastily folded his hands in his lap and looked across the van at BA, who was predictably opening his mouth to shout at Murdock.

"Shut up, you crazy fool!" BA began, "Ain't no such thing as alternate worlds!"

Murdock talked over him. "And they didn't know why the Little brothers – the ones from this reality – were…"

Face decided it was time to intervene before BA launched himself across the van and strangled Murdock. He cleared his throat. "Well, regardless of who they are, it's pretty clear we need a plan soon. Someone the flunkies call the Big Man is coming tomorrow and the Little Brothers have something of their own going on over at the Walker farm."

Hannibal began to smile. Face had a feeling he wasn't going to like this plan. "BA," Hannibal said, "Show them what you've been working on."

BA opened a small case by his feet and pulled out two small devices. He pointed to the first. "This here's a tracking device. I adapted it from an old one to make it smaller and give it a longer range so we can follow it better."

Face nodded and examined it before turning his attention to the other item, which just looked like a normal bug to him.

BA continued. "This here's a bug, but if they find it and try to move it, it'll start a fire. Don't drop it."

Oh, of course. Of course it was Face who got to plant the fire bug.

Face had been right. He didn't like the plan. Hannibal always underestimated how difficult the things he asked Face to do were. These guys had already seen his face. How was he meant to plant a tracking device on them? In the end, he left that to Murdock, who would also have the task of distracting them while Face planted the bug in one of the rooms where the muscle was staying. Hannibal and BA were waiting in the van, ready to follow the Littles wherever they went, while Face and Murdock sat in the motel room they'd scammed and listened to the bug. And probably got kidnapped and tied up, because that was usually what happened when they split up.

Face waited for Joe and Frank Little to come out of their room with a younger man in a cowboy hat, who was clearly a driver, and watched as Murdock accosted them. He just hoped they weren't so freaked out by the craziness that they decided to go back to their room, because that would work out badly for Face.

Room 11 seemed like the best bet. Murdock had said he'd seen guns inside, and it was nice and close to room 14, so the bug would transmit clearly and it would seem believable that he'd mixed up the rooms. There were obviously people in it, so planting the bug wouldn't be a waste of time. Face tucked the bug securely up his left sleeve, making a face as he did so. If this thing went off while he was trying to hide it, he was going to kill BA. He rolled his other sleeve up and tugged his shirt so it was untucked and hanging lopsidedly off one shoulder, taking a moment to mourn the loss of his $300 shirt, which was definitely beyond repair. He rubbed some dirt onto his pants and made sure his hair was appropriately untidy, and then took out his whiskey flask again, gargling some of the liquid and spitting it out. He climbed the steps to the second floor of the motel in a controlled stumble. Looking blind drunk whilst not jostling the bug was surprisingly difficult.

Face jabbed at the lock a few times with his room key, clumsily twisting the doorknob before opening the unlocked door of room eleven. He fell onto the soft brown carpet, subtly protecting the unstable bug as he did so. Four angry faces appeared in his field of vision. He squinted confusedly up at them. "Who're you? Why're you in my room?" He feigned struggling to get to his feet, crawling forward until he was beside one of the twin beds. He gripped the frame to pull himself upright, simultaneously tucking the bug safely into the bed-frame, before collapsing on the floor and floundering a bit more.

One of the guys (at least six inches taller than him and probably forty pounds heavier, which Hannibal never considered when formulating plans) grabbed him roughly by the collar and dragged him to his feet. Face winced at the sound of stitches ripping in the expensive shirt.

"Hey, hey, whatcha doin'? Tha's an espens-espen- cost lots of money shirt," Face slurred at him.

"What are you doing in here?" The man barked at him, his sausage-fingers unpleasantly close to Face's throat.

Face bugged his eyes out and retched, pretending to look around for somewhere to vomit. "I don't feel so good," he moaned, observing the two long-distance rifles set up to aim out the window, the automatic weapons and spare ammo in the corner, the handguns the four heavies were wearing, and the surprisingly good imitation Monet above the table.

"Wrong room, pal." The man let out a disgusted growl and threw Face bodily from the room. Face rolled with the landing and maintained his drunken crawl until he reached room fourteen and got inside.

Murdock was already there, grinning from his spot at the orange table, where he was listening to the bug's receiver. "Nice one, Faceman! In another life, I bet you were the good-for-nothing son of a Texas oil tycoon."

"Oh, it was nothing," Face said with false modesty. "Now what are they saying?"

Murdock's gleeful smile widened. "Someone should wash their mouths out with soap. They said some very nasty things about what they're going to do the next time the stupid pretty-boy interrupts them. Now they're talking about lunch. Are you hungry? I'm hungry."

Face crossed the room to rummage in the case Murdock had brought up from the van for some clean clothes. There was only so long he could wear a ruined outfit for, even in a good cause. He had his dignity to maintain. He pulled out a pair of well-pressed cream coloured pants and a silk shirt in a lovely shade of salmon, along with a tin of shoe polish, and went into the small bathroom to change, firmly shutting the door so Murdock had to talk to him from the other side. Wonderful. Stake out with Murdock. Murdock was a great guy, but Face could think of a lot of people he would rather spend an afternoon locked in a motel room with.

Two hours later, Face was bored. Bored, and irritated. Bored, because mostly the guys in room eleven talked about food and compared weapons, revealing little of their plans or reasons for buying out the town. There were a few comments about a reward and more about a Big Man, and a short discussion about 'taking out' the Little Brothers, which Face didn't like the sound of. Irritated, because Murdock was bored too. And when Murdock was bored, you knew about it. He'd started going on about parallel worlds again about an hour in, and now he'd finally wound down from that and had gone back to singing Johnny Cash.

"I can't hear what they're saying, Murdock," Face complained, "Not that we'll be missing anything. These guys do nothing but eat. No wonder they're so big…"

He was interrupted by the sound of a machine gun redecorating the door of their motel room. "I told you we missed something," he shouted at Murdock as he dived behind the bed for protection, pulling his case of clothes down with him. He dug inside it for the small pistol he kept there, as Murdock crouched beside him, pulling a handgun from inside his jacket and firing at the door.

The remains of the door burst free of its hinges, crashing onto the carpet, already torn up unrecognisably where bullets had pierced the wood of the door and embedded themselves in the floor. Face groaned. "There goes our deposit."

Their visitors were the men Face had seen in room eleven: all bigger than Face and Murdock, and all with bigger guns.

The biggest guy, the one with the sausage fingers and the neck the same width as his head, aimed his gun at the bed in front of Face and Murdock, his finger tightening on the trigger. "Why are you here?" He asked.

"We heard the hospitality was first class," Face replied, peeking over the top of the bed and firing a quick shot at his knee before ducking back behind the bed.

There was a quiet grunt, and then: "You shouldn't have done that."

Face glanced at Murdock. He'd been sure that had hit. Murdock poked his head up and fired two rounds into the guy's shoulder. The huge guy flinched slightly as each round found its mark in his shoulder joint, but didn't fall. Mostly he just looked really annoyed. "You really shouldn't have done that," he ground out, glaring at them.

Face pulled Murdock under the bed just as a stream of bullets ventilated the wall immediately behind where Murdock's head had been.

A moment later, all they could do was stare in horror as the bed they were cowering, sorry, sheltering under to regroup, was lifted off them – mattress, metal frame and all – and flung across the room. One of the legs smashed through the window, shattering the glass, while the others twisted and bent, making holes in the plaster. There was a short moment of silence except for the echo of the smash, and then the mattress and bedding fell to the floor with a soft thump.

Face looked up at the four machine guns aimed at him and put his hands up, releasing his weapon. Murdock did the same.

"Who sent you?" The man showed no sign that he'd just been shot three times. Face worked very hard not to freak out at that. He'd seen people get shot. He knew how much it hurt.

"Santa Claus," said Face, "You've been – "

"There are these alternate worlds," Murdock began.

"Tie them up," the giant interrupted, "We have to leave now if we're going to ambush the Little Brothers at the Walker farm. The Big Man wants them dead before he gets here. Oh, for – someone gag that guy!" He pointed at Murdock, who was still babbling about alternate worlds in a way perfectly calculated to raise any kidnapper's blood pressure.

The rope they tied Face to the chair with bit into his skin, his now ruined silk shirt providing little relief from its roughness. "Oh boy oh boy," he said as the last of the men disappeared through the hole where the door had been. "We have to warn Hannibal and BA."

"Cheer up, Faceman," Murdock said far too brightly considering the situation, "At least we got our own chairs this time. And oh look, they broke the window for us."

Face felt a smirk return to his face. "How convenient."

Dean wasn't happy about having to let one of the tough guys from the motel come with them while they looked for clues about how to get home, but he couldn't see a way around it without raising the alarm. They picked the youngest and least confident henchman they could find, a boy by the name of Willie Jr., barely out of his teens, with crooked teeth and brand new steel-cap boots. After checking him as thoroughly as possible for demonic tendencies, they allowed him to lead them out to a battered car that had once been white and was now so thoroughly dust covered it was almost camouflaged against the packed-dirt lot. It was one of several in the parking lot, and indistinguishable from any of the others.

Dean pulled up short as they approached the vehicle, reaching automatically to where his gun should be. He scowled as his hand came up empty. Damn whackos still had his gun. He was definitely getting that back before he and Sam made the leap home. Beside him, Sam was also still, his weight balanced, ready to go either way.

The man in the brown leather jacket was leaning casually on one of the cars, his hands in his pockets, face half hidden by the rim of his cap. Dean wasn't so sure it was blue anymore. More like faded black, or something in between. What had the guy with the cigar called him? Murdock? He didn't seem to have a gun, this time. And he was smiling at them. Dean wasn't sure if that was good or bad.

Willie Jr. bristled, puffing himself up menacingly. "That's private property you're leaning on," he said, glaring at Murdock. "Get off it."

The man in the leather jacket seemed entirely unmoved. He pushed himself off the car and ambled over to Sam and Dean, his body language relaxed enough to inform them that he was doing it entirely by choice and his actions were in no way the result of Willie Jr.'s order.

He placed his hands on Dean's shoulders, the cheerful expression on his face suddenly replaced by one of total seriousness. "I just want you to know that I know you aren't Joe and Frank Little." He gave Dean a little shake that Dean guessed was probably meant to be comforting. "I'm gonna help you get home."

Dean stared at him, gaping. How did this guy know? And if he knew, why the hell hadn't he said anything before, instead of shooting at them with automatic weaponry.

Sam started to speak, but he was interrupted as Murdock removed his hands from Dean and patted Sam on the chest. Murdock continued: "At least, not the right Joe and Frank Little for this reality. See, you don't know the right stuff to be them. So I figure you're Joe and Frank Little from the next world, or maybe the one after that, I don't know, and you somehow got swapped with the ones from here…"

Somehow, through all of this, they'd been moving back towards the car they'd be driving to the farm in. Murdock sat on the trunk, fiddling idly with the latch with his right hand as he waved his left hand around in explanation. "Now, what we need to do to get you back to your own world is to recreate the circumstances that brought you here. That means you need to retrace your footsteps to figure out exactly what you were doing at the time the vortex between worlds opened, and what your counterparts in this world were doing. I made a communicator." He pulled what appeared to be a bar of soap with two bent drinking straws poking out of it out of his pocket.

Dean's heart, which had slowly been sinking as the guy explained his knowledge that they weren't Joe and Frank Little, sank even further. Willie Jr. stood threateningly over Murdock, but the man made no move to get off the trunk.

Murdock offered the soap to Sam, who took it, looking perplexed. "It'll work," Murdock assured them, "Last week, my doctor took me to the movies to celebrate our breakthrough, and the scientist used one of these to plot with his counterpart…" He paused for a moment, his expression turning contemplative. "It's so hard to see movies. I hear about them, and I get so excited, you know, but the nurses don't like letting me out, and even Face won't break me out just to go to the movies. It always has to be for a mission, y'know. So I have to escape by myself, and them they come and find me, and I never get to see the end." He shoved himself off the car and began to walk away, turning back to look at them. "Good luck. Don't forget to twist the modulator dial. Better keep it quiet that I helped you, though. My team won't like it."

Dean looked at Sam. Sam looked every bit as weirded out as Dean felt. Sam shrugged at him. "You know, for a second there, I really thought our luck had changed."

Sam held out the soap for him to examine. It was just soap. Dean snorted. "At least we'll be clean when we die here."

They were speeding along a gravel road about twenty minutes out of town, when Dean happened to glance behind them. Through the clouds of dust kicked up by the wheels, and the blur of heat haze, he could see a black van following them. It was gaining.

"Dude, someone's following us," he hissed at Sam, leaning forward because his little brother had won the fight for the front seat.

"Where?" Sam twisted around, poking his head out the passenger window. "Oh."

Unfortunately, Willie Jr., who may not have been very bright, or quite able to reach the levels of menacing demonstrated by the other men in his band of bad guys, had excellent hearing. Without slowing the car, he twisted in his seat and looked behind him. The van was about a hundred yards behind them, the complete absence of other traffic on the narrow road making it impossible for its occupants to disguise the fact they were following them.

"Don't worry, sir," Willie Jr. reassured them, slamming his foot down hard on the accelerator.

The tires squealed and the dust cloud around them tripled in sized as they roared around a bend, the car fishtailing on the loose gravel. Dean gripped the seat in front of him until his knuckles went white, and watched in horror as Willie Jr. reached into his shoulder holster and pulled out a handgun.

In the front seat, Sam was swearing and yelling at the driver. "What the hell are you doing? You're going to kill us!"

Willie Jr. seemed not to hear him. "I'll take out the tyres!" He yelled back. "That'll hold them off for a while!" With that, he twisted, leaning his body as far out the window as he could get it without removing his foot from the accelerator, and fired twice at the van.

Dean mentally praised his brother's presence of mind as Sam grabbed the wheel just in time to stop them driving off the road. He looked at the door handle, calculating the likelihood of survival if he threw himself from the car. He peeked through the back window and quickly ducked his head below the seat. "Get down!" He yelled. The white-haired guy from the bar was poking up through the sunroof of the van. He had a really big gun.

A second later, the rear window of the car shattered, showering Dean with glass. He really wished he had his gun. Its range wouldn't be long enough to hit the van, but it would sure make him feel better.

"Give me your gun!" He shouted at Willie Jr., just as the young man was turning to fire wildly out the window once more. Thankfully, the kid still thought Dean and Sam were his bosses, and handed over the gun without question. "Now drive fast and look where you're going!"

Dean checked the gun and took a quick peek over the back seat. The van was within shooting distance, but only just. He ducked back down, popped up, fired at the front of the van, and popped back down without waiting to check if the bullet hit. It would be more luck than anything if it hit the van, considering how much both vehicles were moving around on the road, and it would be nothing short of a miracle if he actually hit a tire, so he didn't want to have his head up longer than necessary. He was really just firing to deter them from getting closer. And a bit because he'd always wanted to be in a car chase. Dean would never have forgiven himself if he'd missed the opportunity to fire a gun out of a moving vehicle in the general direction of another car.

Dean fired once more, and then suddenly there was a volley of gunfire as a car squealed out of a driveway Dean hadn't seen and turned onto the road behind the black van. The van slowed and the white-haired guy turned and fired at the new car.

"Who's that?" Sam asked.

"Oh, that's just Jimmy and the boys. Remember, you ordered them to keep watch there. They'll take care of the black van good and proper," Willie Jr. said cheerfully, speeding the car onto a rickety bridge and almost getting airborne as they came over the slight drop at the other end. The gap between them and the other cars quickly widened.

Dean watched through the broken window as the banged up car chasing the van skidded off the road, rolled twice, and landed back on its wheels. Four guys jumped out and ran, just in time to be out of the blast range as the car exploded.

As Willie Jr. slowed the car to turn into a narrow lane leading to a farmhouse and a barn, Dean could see the black van driving at a sensible speed once more, following the road to the farm.


	3. Chapter 3

"You enjoyed that way too much," Sam said to his brother as they climbed out of the damaged car.

Dean was beaming like a four year old who'd found a box of finger-paints and a nice white wall. "We were in a car chase Sammy. An actual car chase. You're just jealous because you didn't get to shoot the gun."

"You're right, Dean. I wish I'd been in the backseat, shooting wildly at a moving target while narrowly avoiding getting my head blown off." Actually, he kind of did. It would have distracted him from Willie Jr.'s driving. "You - stay here," he ordered the driver in the most authoritative tone he could muster.

"Aw, come on Sam, it was a little fun. The car exploded! You can't say that wasn't cool."

Sam fought a grin. Okay, so the explosion had been cool. It wasn't like anyone had been hurt, and you weren't normal if you didn't like seeing things blow up.

The driveway to the Walker farm was a narrow dirt track leading to a turning circle with a large, unoccupied farmhouse on one side, and a faded red barn on the other, built of wood, with badly fitted doors. Neither building looked from the outside like anyone had used it recently. Even so, Sam was glad Dean had commandeered Willie Jr.'s gun, just in case.

He was even gladder when he rounded the corner of the barn and saw the helicopter. Sam knew nothing about helicopters, but even he could tell that this was not the rusting corpse of an abandoned aircraft. It was bright white, with thick blue stripes along its sides, and sharp blades. Its door was open.

"Maybe it belongs to the guys who brought us here?" Dean suggested hopefully. "It's a small town. Maybe everyone leaves their doors open."

Sam couldn't muster up a lot of hope that his brother would be right. The best he could manage was to hope they could reverse the spell before whoever owned the helicopter came back for it. And before the crazy guys in the van caught up with them, which wasn't very likely. "Let's just be quick. Keep a lookout."

He eased open the back door of the barn and quickly checked out the space inside. It was fairly dark, and very dusty, but there didn't seem to be anyone in it. The door swung inwards on well-oiled hinges, another sign that the building was in use. A shaft of afternoon light fell across the dirty concrete floor, illuminating the room enough to show its contents.

"This is just a barn, dude," said Dean.

It did look like it was just a barn, at least at first glance. Everything was still a little shadowy, but Sam could make out hay bales in one corner, and a tractor parked in the middle, facing the big front doors. There were sacks of something lined up against one wall, and various pieces of farm equipment here and there. Sam was starting to think they should just skip the barn and go straight to searching the house before the van caught up when two things happened.

The first was the sound of a growling engine, and wheels on the dirt driveway. The second was a glint of light on glass.

Sam started towards the end of the barn where he'd seen the flash of light. Dean closed the door behind him to hide their position a second longer, and the room went dark again, lit only by gaps between aged boards and under the doors. Sam winced as his foot connected with something.

The glint continued, despite the absence of light. They eased their way along the wall towards it.

Outside, there were raised voices and the unmistakable sound of a scuffle. Sam hoped they didn't hurt Willie Jr. too badly. He might have been an idiot who was well on his way to becoming a thug, but he was commendably brave and very loyal to the people he thought were his employers. He'd probably forget all about his ambitions to become a bad guy if he met a nice girl.

"It's a mirror," Dean announced, flicking on his lighter to brighten up the area while they examined it.

"Why didn't you light that before?" Sam asked in annoyance, clutching his sore foot.

"Shut up and look at this crap, Sam. This place is full of hay, fertiliser and gasoline. I don't want this lighter going any longer than it has to be."

Sam got his point. In the wavering light of the tiny flame, he examined the mirror and its immediate surroundings. The mirror was small and round and stuck fast to the wall by some means unknown to Sam. It shone unnaturally, and when Sam looked in it, he saw his own face looking back, despite the fact that all day, everyone who had looked at him had seen Frank Little. There were several thick, dusty volumes tucked away in the corner and hidden with hay, and as Sam brushed away the dirt and hay with his foot, he discovered symbols etched into the concrete below the mirror. He couldn't be sure without examining them in better light, but they looked a lot like the ones on the skins they'd found in the motel room.

There was a loud creaking noise as the crooked front doors of the barn were dragged open and light flooded in. Dean flicked off his lighter and pulled out Willie Jr.'s gun, as Sam reached for the books. Now that there it was lighter he could see that they looked old and unfamiliar, and at least one was in a language he didn't recognise. He shuffled behind his brother and picked them up. They were heavy and would be hard to hold on to in a fight, but there was no other way to figure out how to get home, so he sure as hell wasn't leaving without them.

"Hi guys," The white haired guy was standing in the doorway, smiling widely at them like he hadn't just been shooting at them from a moving van. There was a silver sub-machine gun in his black-gloved hands. "BA, say hello."

"Hello," growled the guy with the Mohawk, from where he was standing at the back door. He didn't have a gun, but he did have arms thicker than Sam's legs.

The two men started closing in on the corner where Sam and Dean stood.

"Any ideas?" Sam muttered to his brother out of the corner of his mouth.

Dean was looking at BA with that sarcastic little smirk he always got just before he did something really stupid. "Dude. Nice shirt."

It wasn't. It was bright pink and sleeveless, with black tiger stripes on it. He was wearing it tucked into camouflage-print cargo pants, and had a wide black belt around his waist. There were feather earrings in his ears and so many gold chains around his neck it was a wonder he could lift his head. He glared furiously at Dean. "You got something to say about my shirt, fool?"

"Now, BA," the white haired guy said soothingly, "Remember, we need them to be able to talk."

BA didn't look happy about it, but he restrained from throwing himself at Dean, standing still, with his muscles rippling as he squeezed his hands into fists.

"No, seriously," said Dean. "It's a great outfit. I'd totally pick that if I was in the circus. And the pink goes so well with all that fake gold."

Sam groaned as the enormous man snarled at Dean. "I don't know if I can hold off much longer, Hannibal," BA said, grinding the knuckles of his right hand into his left palm.

"It's nice to see a guy so comfortable with himself that he's not afraid to show his feminine side," Dean continued, and threw himself sideways behind a hay bale as BA lost his grip on his emotions and threw himself at Dean.

Sam sighed. There was nothing to do but drop the books and leap on top of BA to give Dean time to roll away before the guy killed him.

He launched himself at BA, landing on his back and hooking an arm around his throat, dragging him off as Dean wriggled out of reach, kicking BA's hands from his legs and rolling to his feet before immediately rushing Hannibal and trying to wrestle the gun away. Sam rolled sideways, his arm still tight around BA's throat, but he misjudged and felt their momentum take him over onto his back. The breath huffed out of him as BA landed on top of him. Sam was much taller than BA, and was solid muscle, but BA was _heavy_. The few seconds it took for Sam to recover from the pain of being slammed onto his back with a huge weight landing on his chest was enough for BA to break the grip Sam had around his neck and get to his feet. Sam kicked him hard in the side of the knee to distract him while Sam got to his feet, breathing hard. He ducked just in time to avoid a huge fist swinging for his head, and countered with a punch to the abdomen. It was like punching a brick wall. The guy didn't even flinch. Sam winced and shook his hand out as he danced out of reach.

Out of the corner of his eye, he saw a blur of motion as Dean fought with Hannibal, the gun now out of sight, lost somewhere in the scattered hay from broken bales and the white snow of fertiliser scattered from a ripped bag.

BA darted towards him again, his hands curled into fists, heavy gold rings like armour on his fingers. Sam had just enough time to tense his stomach muscles before it connected, preventing the worst of the damage. That didn't mean it didn't hurt, though. There were going to be marks where those rings had connected. He took advantage of his longer reach and swung hard at the shorter man's face. His fist slammed into BA's jaw hard enough to make him stagger backwards and make Sam clench his teeth against the pain in his hand. He followed it up with a hard left while BA was still on the back foot, sending the man careening into the wall hard enough to make the building shake, but failing to knock him out.

Sam was breathing hard by now. He unclenched his fists, stretching his aching fingers as he caught his breath. He glanced over at his brother, catching sight of him as he ducked behind the huge wheel of the old tractor, Hannibal hot in pursuit.

Looking away had been a mistake. BA's fist smashed hard into Sam's midsection again, this time making him double over in pain, and then the man had a hand in his shirt and one around his leg and was lifting him off the ground. Sam flew through the air and landed hard in a pile of hay in the corner. The hay probably saved him from serious injury, but it sure didn't feel like it had. He lay still and moaned quietly as the wind was knocked out of him for the second time in quick succession. His vision blurred, white spots appearing before his eyes. He flopped his head to one side and took in the spikes of the rake lying six inches from his head. He would have let out a relieved sigh, but he didn't have any air left. Instead he forced himself to breathe and fought to sit up, batting away pieces of hay floating in the air, where it had been thrown up by the force of his body landing in the pile.

"Don't move, sucker!" BA shouted at him, moving to stand over him, a fierce scowl on his face.

Sam let himself flop back into the hay and looked around for Dean.

Dean was backed into a corner, brandishing a pitchfork at Hannibal, while the older man threatened him with a spade. Neither was making much of a move, stuck in a stand-off as they tried to outdo each other with witty insults and cockiness.

Above Sam, BA groaned. "Oh no. Hannibal on the jazz, now."

Sam didn't know what that meant, but he was pretty sure it wasn't good.

"Sammy, you okay?" Dean called.

"Yeah," Sam croaked, and cursed himself as Hannibal took advantage of Dean's distraction and knocked the pitchfork from his hands.

Sam lost sight of his brother and had to concentrate on spitting out hay as BA spun him over, forcing his hands behind his back and tying them there with the thin twine that had been around one of the hale bales. He struggled and kicked, but BA knelt on his back and dug his knee in as he tied up Sam's legs. Sam rolled back over and glared at his captor, sitting up and wriggling his tightly bound wrists. He was pretty sure he could break the twine eventually, but it would take him a while.

Another shower of hay was flung up as Dean landed next to Sam in the pile, his arms and legs similarly bound.

"Now, Mr Little and Mr Little," Hannibal said to them, "We've got some questions for you."

But Sam and Dean had been trained by John Winchester to keep their mouths shut during questioning, and consequently everyone was in the same position and getting bored an hour and a half later when a third car pulled up outside.

Four figures stood in the doorway, the light behind them shadowing their faces. All four of them were tall, with wide shoulders and arms knotted with muscles. Sam wasn't worried about that. Guys that thickset were usually slow, or at least slower than Sam. He was pretty sure he could take on at least one in hand-to-hand combat, and if not, he could at least run away. No, what worried him were the guns. He'd been stuck in the past less than a day and he'd already encountered more illegal automatic weaponry than he cared to think about.

The biggest one was standing slightly in front of his flunkies, so they formed a lopsided V-shape that left no doubt about who was the boss. He stepped forward, tipping his cowboy hat back on his head with large, thick-fingered hand. "Well boys," he said, "Seems they're all wrapped up pretty for us."

Sam groaned. Seriously? Another lot of bad guys after them? No wonder the Little brothers had done the switcheroo. And he'd just got his hands free, too.

Hannibal turned away from the Winchesters, facing down the four enormous, armed men, with a smile on his face and a glint in his eye. "I don't believe we've had the pleasure, gentlemen. I'm Hannibal Smith. Now, what do four goons want with two crooked businessmen?"

Sam looked across at his brother. Dean gave a tiny nod. Sam looked back over at the men in the doorway, mentally calculating the distance he could cover in order to disarm them versus the time it would take them to aim and fire. He caught Dean's eye and shook his head. There was no way either of them would get more than two steps, even with Hannibal distracting them. Dean grinned and made a tiny gesture with his head. A glint of silver was showing through the hay a few feet to Dean's left. Hannibal's gun.

Sam's eyes widened. He shook his head at Dean, sending his brother silent messages. _No way, Dean. Don't you dare. You'll be dead before you get a hand to it._

But the men in the doorway were getting bored with Hannibal's smart remarks. They were looking restless.

"Can we shoot them now, boss?" One of them was asking.

The boss-man took a few steps into the building, moving with a silky grace that was surprising in such a big man. Sam was getting a bad feeling. He and Dean had been as thorough as possible with their demon checks back at the motel, but they'd only seen these guys from a distance, and not all demons responded to the basic tests. There was a faint static in the air; an even fainter smell of sulfur. Nobody else seemed to have noticed, but Sam had a stronger sense of the demonic than most people, even now that he'd stopped drinking the blood.

"I want to play with these ones a while," The leader said, smirking cruelly in the direction of the Winchesters. "But it's open season on the old guy and the incredible hulk."

"Ah," said Hannibal, with frightening calmness, and a total absence of visible fear, "I wouldn't try that if I were you." He reached into the inside pocket of his jacket and pulled out a cigar, biting off the end and spitting it out before putting the cigar in his mouth. "Come now, you wouldn't deny a man his final smoke, would you?"

The leader returned his attention to Hannibal. "And why shouldn't we kill you? Because you want to make a deal?"

"No," Hannibal feigned a disrespectful distractedness as he rummaged for his lighter, "because we have friends."

* * *

Murdock resisted the urge to hum to himself as he silently approached the men standing in the barn doorway. It had been too easy, really. The bad guys had made two fatal mistakes.

The first had been believing they could leave two members of the A-team tied up in a room full of broken glass and other sharp objects and expect them not to escape. Face had cut through his bindings with a shard of broken window and freed Murdock in two minutes flat. He'd given himself a small cut in the process, but it had looked a lot worse than it was. That hadn't stopped him complaining about the blood ruining his shirt the whole way out to the farm, though.

The second mistake had been leaving a car with the keys in it unattended behind the motel, immediately below the window Murdock and Face had climbed out. Although, in all fairness, that might have been someone else. They hadn't exactly stopped to check license and registration before taking off after the dust cloud being thrown up by the thugs' vehicle as it tore out to the farm.

The third had been – wait, that was more than two. He'd have to start again. Three fatal mistakes. One: Leaving Face and Murdock in a room full of ways to escape being tied up. Two, giving them access to a car. Three: Mistake number three was not having a sentry. Four: Threatening Hannibal and BA. Wait, he'd miscounted again.

Well, it didn't really matter, because mistake number four was the really big one. So big that it overrode all the previous mistakes. Eclipsed them. And they were going to regret it. They were going to regret it in too many ways to count, because no one, _nobody at all_ threatened Murdock's team and didn't regret it.

Face gave him the signal. He crept closer, maintaining his stance, ensuring his weapon was well balanced. He quickly ran over the plan in his head. It was simple and daring, everything Hannibal could ask for in a plan, especially one that had been formed in a few minutes while driving at top speed. They'd had to break into the van for the weapons, but surely BA couldn't be too mad about a broken window or three if Murdock saved his life. And the helicopter around the back had been a stroke of luck, which all good plans relied on. Well, all exciting ones, anyway.

"We have friends," He heard Hannibal say.

He nodded at face. It was time. He took a final step forward and pressed the barrel of his gun against the closest man's back, just hard enough for him to feel it. The curly-haired man stiffened and froze as he recognised the touch of gun-metal to his spine.

Murdock sang quietly: "_When I was just a baby, my Momma told me, 'Son. Always be a good boy, don't ever play with guns.' But I shot a man in Reno, just to watch him die…_"

He let it hang for a minute, the sudden stillness in the barn highlighting the dramatic effect. He grinned, watching from the corner of his eye as Face pressed his own gun into the back of the man who had tied him up.

"Good to see you again, fellas," Face said pleasantly, a dangerous smile on his face. "Now, if you just put down your guns, we'll be on our way."

The leader of the bad guys, who Murdock had started thinking of as 'Sausage Fingers', just laughed. A strange and unexpected thread of fear ran through Murdock. He couldn't shake the feeling that there was something wrong about this guy. There was no sign of the bullet wounds he should have had, but what scared him even more than the strange lack of vulnerability to weapons was the man's total lack of concern about his team.

"Kill them," Sausage Fingers said casually. "They have served their purpose."

The fourth man, who had frozen when he'd seen the guns pressing into his friends' backs spluttered and looked at his boss. "But sir, you said… You said there would be a reward. You said if we helped you, the Big Man would give us whatever we wanted!"

"I lied," Sausage Fingers did not even bother to look at his employee. "Now, you've got three options. One, join us, and live. Two, give up the Little brothers and I'll do you a favour and shoot you. Three, if you choose to persist in this ridiculous game, all of you will die very, very slowly."

A scornful voice interrupted him. "Oh save us the posturing, Pinhead," Joe Little had somehow escaped his bonds (amazing really, considering it had been Hannibal and BA who had tied him up) and was standing up, holding a pitchfork and glaring at Sausage Fingers. "Why don't we just skip straight to the bit where we circle each other and you tell me about my Daddy issues and then eventually reveal who sent you?"

He was brave, Murdock would give him that. A few feet away, the other Little brother had also managed to free himself and was shuffling sideways towards a glint of silver in the hay. A familiar resigned look was on his face. Murdock recognised that look. He, Face and BA all got it when Hannibal was on the Jazz.

It all happened very quickly after that. Joe Little said something in Latin that made Sausage Fingers shudder and then made a sudden lunge for him with the pitchfork. His brother dove sideways and came up with a hay-covered gun. Hannibal and BA darted forward to make a grab for the weapons the guys held at gun point had dropped.

The curly-haired guy twisted around and made a grab for Murdock's weapon. Murdock was distracted for a moment as he found himself having to knock the guy out with the butt of his gun.

As Murdock was doing that, there was a wild spray of bullets from somewhere – he couldn't be sure where, maybe the fourth man panicking or Sausage Fingers losing control of his weapon as he shuddered – that tore holes in the barn wall, sending up tiny shards of glass as it smashed a tiny mirror.

There was a glimmer of light and everyone stopped and stared as the Little Brothers changed before their eyes.


	4. Chapter 4

The air sparkled and wavered around the Littles, as their figures blurred and stretched. Murdock watched in astonishment as Frank Little grew six inches and his brother's shoulders broadened and became muscular. Both men's faces lost their cragginess, becoming younger and more symmetrical as their bodies became fitter and more athletic. Joe's cheekbones lifted, his nose became more streamlined, his eyes less squinty. Frank lost the frown-lines on his forehead and around his mouth as his face lengthened, his features becoming sharper. Slowly, the glimmer faded, and there stood two entirely different men.

Murdock shut his mouth and glanced around at the other occupants of the barn. Sometimes it paid to check if everyone else was seeing something before mentioning it. Everyone was motionless, staring at the two men. It was totally silent.

The man who had been Frank Little reached one enormous hand into the pile of hay at his feet and came up with a gun – Hannibal's, if Murdock wasn't mistaken, and that sure said something about them, that they'd disarmed him – which he quickly and efficiently checked for jams before using it to cover the room.

"I'm going to take the stunned silence to mean we look like ourselves again." The man who had been Joe Little was still holding the pitchfork. He smiled widely at them, revealing a set of perfect white teeth to rival Face's. "We'll be going now."

The two men started edging away towards the back door.

Murdock couldn't contain himself anymore. "I knew it!" he exclaimed. He looked over at Face, who had one hand fisted in the collar of a henchman's shirt while his other hand pressed his gun into the man's back. Both men were frozen, gaping at the spot where the Little brothers had changed. "Didn't I tell you they weren't really the Little brothers, Faceman?"

Faceman recovered his composure and shot Murdock a look that Murdock just knew meant he was about to be boringly pedantic. "Actually, Murdock, I believe you said they were the Little brothers from an alternate universe."

"Maybe they look different in that universe?" Murdock suggested hopefully.

"What's goin' on?" BA interrupted, reverting to his default shock setting of shouting aggressively at nobody in particular. "You!" He stabbed a thick finger in the direction of the man with the pitchfork. "You goin' to tell me what happened. Right now, sucker!"

The guy with the pitchfork didn't look particularly concerned by BA's threat. "Yeah, about that… We're a bit hazy on the details ourselves, but if you just let us past, we'll set things straight."

They continued to move towards the door. BA glared at them in angry confusion, and then glanced across at Hannibal for instructions. For once, Hannibal seemed to be at a loss for words. He was still gaping at the two men, his mind rejecting the possibility of what they had all seen. There was no trace of his trademark grin or his usually unshakable confidence.

Murdock had decided a long time ago that it was best to just to roll with it when something crazy happened. In the end, it didn't really matter if it was real or not. If something seemed real, it should be dealt with accordingly. It was better to solve a problem and look crazy if it wasn't real, than to not solve a problem just in case it wasn't real. The latter was much more likely to end in unpleasant deaths. He knew it would be down to him to do something. Hannibal was disarmed and gaping like a brain-damaged fish. Face was slightly better, but this didn't really strike Murdock as a situation that they could charm their way out of, and BA – well, BA didn't make the plans at the best of times.

Sausage Fingers recovered before Murdock could do anything. He stepped forward, lowering the muzzle of his gun so it was no longer aimed over the heads of the ex-Little brothers. "Well, well. What have we here? Hunters, I presume."

The barn doors suddenly slammed shut behind Murdock, seemingly on their own. It was like the sharp crack and sudden darkness woke everyone up. There was a rush of movement as people realised that something was very, very wrong. Never mind the people who had just changed before their eyes. There was a more immediate danger here. Barn doors didn't just slam on their own, without a breath of wind or a human hand to help. Especially barn doors as old and rickety as these. Barn doors like these should have to be forced closed, dragging on the ground, rusted hinges protesting loudly.

Someone slammed into Murdock from the side, before his eyes had time to adjust to the darkness. He stumbled, tripping over the unconscious body of the man who had tried to wrestle his weapon away from him, and fell to the floor, bringing his attacker down with him.

"This is your fault," the man hissed at him, "You had to interfere!"

Murdock would have laughed at him, if the guy hadn't had his hands on his throat. How could this possibly be his fault? But then, panicking people often assigned blame in ridiculous places. He broke the grip on his throat, thrashing out blindly in the hopes of displacing the heavier man from on top of him.

Somewhere to his left, he could hear Face trying to open the door, saying: "You know, if someone could help me out, here, that would be great. BA? Oh, great. I have to do everything myself." Murdock could practically hear the sarcastic smile on his friend's face.

There was some sort of huge commotion going on in the corner of the barn where the so-called Little brothers had been. There was crashing and swearing and the sound of heavy objects flying across the room. Someone was shouting in Latin again. The gravelly voice of Sausage Fingers was laughing coldly, saying: "Really boys? An exorcism?"

A third voice came in, saying: "Crap, dude. I think it's bound to the vessel."

Murdock didn't have time to think about it, because the man he was scuffling with was suddenly pulled off him. "Go help Face with the door," Hannibal's voice ordered him. "I'll take care of this guy."

The doors wouldn't budge. It was like some kind of force was holding them shut. Murdock and Face heaved at them for several minutes, first throwing their combined weight at them in an effort to force the doors outwards, and then tugging at the handles, trying to pull them in. All they achieved was accidentally breaking off one of the handles.

"It's no good," Face said eventually, "We'll have to try the back way."

They edged around the wall, pausing only long enough to throw off a dark figure who tried to stop them getting away.

BA was shouting on the other side of the barn, calling someone a crazy fool. There was a loud crash right after that; Murdock took it as a good sign. As his eyes adjusted to the darkness, shadowy forms became visible, all of them moving fast, hitting and dodging and tackling each other. The unmistakable shape of a gun was still in Sausage Fingers' hand, but he wasn't firing. It was too dark, or maybe he had never really intended to shoot anyone. Murdock was hoping it was the second case. That the guy only had the gun to threaten people with, and had shut the doors himself. If there was someone or something else out there that had shut the doors, they were all in big trouble.

Sausage Fingers was still talking, low and silky and threatening, the sounds weaving under the chaotic noise around them. Murdock couldn't hear what he was saying, and found he didn't want to.

They reached the back door. It was smaller than the front door, and newer. A thin line of daylight showed beneath it. It was jammed just as fast as the other door.

"Tractor?" Face suggested.

"Did you get a good look at it? Will it work?"

"Looks okay," Face replied. "Not perfect, and we'll need to make sure we've got everyone before we make our move. We'll only get one run at the door."

Murdock grinned. This was a plan worthy of Hannibal. They parted ways, Face to let Hannibal and BA in on the plan, while Murdock got the tractor ready as best he could in the dark. That was usually BA's job, but BA didn't do his best thinking after a shock, and anyway, judging by the sounds coming from the corner of the barn BA was needed over there.

Murdock flicked on Face's lighter, doing his best to contain the light in the tractor cab. It wasn't ideal, but he'd had to weigh up the consequences of the light being seen with the consequences of attempting to hotwire a tractor in the dark. He quickly located the correct wires and prepared them, before climbing down to search out the sacks of fertiliser and cans of fuel he knew were in the barn.

It was amazing the things you could find in a barn if you looked properly, Murdock thought, tearing off a piece of sacking and twisting it into a wick, which he stuffed into the top a small jar he'd found. He'd had to tip something unidentified out of the jar before he could make the bomb. He hadn't liked that, but you had to work with the available resources. He lined it up with the others and slid back into the driver's seat as he heard his team approaching.

BA unceremoniously shoved the unmoving form of one of the men formerly known as the Little brothers into the cab and climbed in after, saying: "Just unconscious."

He was followed by the enormously tall figure of the second not-Little-brother. Hannibal and Face each jumped on a running board.

"Let's go," ordered Hannibal. He pulled out a cigar and lit it quickly. "BA, you got something for me?"

Murdock touched the wires together. The engine coughed and rumbled into life. He hit the gas. The vehicle rolled forward slowly. The acceleration on the thing was a bit disappointing, but it was built like a tank and would take out a wall easily, let alone a little door.

A spray of badly aimed bullets hit the tractor's hood, fortunately missing anything vital. Maybe it was lucky the tractor was so slow. If the bullets had hit a couple of feet further back on the tractor, Faceman would have been toast.

He kept his foot to the floor and drove at the doors. Hannibal touched the glowing tip of his cigar to the wick poking out of the jar BA handed him. Face followed his example. The bumper of the tractor hit the double doors with an almighty crash, just as Face and Hannibal threw their explosives.

The tractor plunged into bright daylight as twin blasts of heat and pressure came from the barn, rocking the tractor on its wheels. Clouds of flame flared behind them, accompanied by two deafening bangs in quick succession.

Murdock didn't look back. He swung the tractor as hard and fast as he could, lurching around the side of the burning barn to where the helicopter sat and let out a whoop as he saw it still sitting there, just waiting for him.

* * *

Sam adjusted his headset and looked down at his stirring brother as the blades of the helicopter began to spin. The head wound didn't look too bad, but Sam would feel better about it once they were out of there and back on solid ground so he could check it out properly. He put Dean's headset on for him, carefully avoiding the bleeding lump on his brother's forehead. God, Dean was going to be so pissed when he woke up and discovered he was in a helicopter.

Maybe not as bad as BA though. He'd kicked up a hell of a fuss and flatly refused to climb in or leave his van behind. They'd wasted a precious moment while he'd threatened to beat up anyone who tried to get him into the chopper. In the end, he and Hannibal had stayed on the ground, and were going to take the van and meet them somewhere. Sam had never thought he'd see the day when he was glad Dean's coping techniques were so solidly founded on repression and refusal to show weakness. He didn't want to think about what would happen if Dean woke up and lost control like BA had.

The rotors spun furiously and the chopper rose smoothly into the air. Sam peered down at the rippling dry grass beneath them and the burning barn beside them. To his horror, the demon who had been running the show was stumbling out of the back door of the barn, flames still burning up his left arm, someone's handgun in his right hand.

"Oh boy oh boy," the pretty guy on the other side of Dean said in an oddly polite understatement of the danger. "Better step on it, Murdock."

The pilot whooped. His voice crackled through the communicators. "This is your Captain, Howling Mad Murdock. Please ensure your doors are locked and harnesses are buckled, as I'll be taking this baby up to top speed."

"Sam?" Dean's voice asked groggily. He looked around, his eyes widening and his shoulders tensing as he took in their surroundings. "What the hell? Why are we flying?"

"It's not for long man. Just try to keep calm," Sam said soothingly.

"Keep calm?" Dean's voice became strangled. "We're trapped in a death machine being flown by someone who calls himself Howling Mad Murdock and thinks you can communicate with other worlds using soap!" He struggled with the harness Sam had strapped him into, searching for the buckles to undo them.

Sam grabbed his hands to stop him. "Dean, I can guarantee that it's safer to stay in the helicopter than to jump out without a parachute. It's only gonna be another five minutes."

"Trust me," Murdock contributed. "By the time we get to the rendezvous you'll love choppers. A bird like this will get us there in a fraction of the time it would take to drive, and we've got the whole sky to use. Even if we did come across something in our way, this baby can turn on a dime and has the second best vertical lift of anything on the market. See, I'll show you."

"Hold on," Face warned Sam and Dean, just in time. "I don't think this is helping, Murdock!"

Sam clutched at his harness as the helicopter turned sharply to the left, rolling over so Sam's door was almost parallel to the ground. He peeked down at the dusty earth beneath them, and held his breath until he felt the helicopter level off beneath them.

He looked at Dean, who was slumped pale-faced against his harness.

"I think he fainted," said Face. "Don't worry; Murdock's really a very good pilot."

Sam was starting to think Dean might have the right idea about flying after all. The pilot was singing now. "_Good-bye, Little Darling, good-bye."_ Sam folded his arms and tried not to listen, occupying his mind by trying to figure out what the hell was going on.

Okay, so these brothers were businessmen who had been buying up the town of Hackton, including bars, the motel, and the farm they had just been at. Something had scared them enough to perform a ritual to remove themselves to some point in the future, switching themselves with Sam and Dean. Whether they had chosen Sam and Dean to switch with for a reason was yet to be determined. It must also have been necessary for the Little brothers to appear to still be in Hackton in 1984, or they wouldn't have bothered to perform the glamour to make everyone see them when they looked at the Winchesters. It was possible that they had simply not wanted anyone to know they were gone, but Sam thought it was more than that. And then there was the demonic involvement. As far as he could see, only one of the men at the barn had been a demon, and the rest were human flunkies. The group who'd attacked them in the bar were not affiliated with the other group, but both groups had a bone to pick with the Little brothers. Finally, it seemed that there was another, bigger boss who was expecting results. Sam had to assume that he was a demon, too. Demons just didn't take orders from humans, not even as part of a wider plan. So what to do now?

Well, first things first: They would have to figure out who the guys who had rescued them were, and do some serious explaining about the sudden, dramatic changes their appearances had undergone.

Murdock landed the helicopter expertly in a field behind a small farmhouse. To Sam's relief, there was hardly a bump as they landed. Maybe Murdock really was as good as he said he was. They waited until the blades had stopped spinning and the dry grass of the field was still again before climbing out and heading towards the house.

Dean seemed none the worse for his head injury. Sam could only just catch him in order to examine it, because Dean was too busy glaring suspiciously at the guys who had rescued them, and pretending he hadn't just freaked out about being in a helicopter, to worry about concussions. The bleeding seemed to have stopped, so he wouldn't need stitches. He probably wouldn't even get a scar. Dean was like that. He could have his face ripped off by rabid cats and he would look fine the next day.

"It's fine, Sam," Dean pushed him off and sat in one of the faded wooden chairs in the small kitchen. He looked across the room at Face and Murdock. "Now, why don't you start explaining why everyone wants to play with the guys you thought we were so much."

"Or," said the pretty guy, from where he was reaching under the kitchen counter for something, "You could tell us who the heck you are." He turned around, aiming a shotgun in their direction. "Murdock, tie them up."

Dean groaned. "You've gotta be kidding me."


End file.
